


Gen/SFW Prompt Fills by Doomsteady

by Doomsteady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crafts, Drabbles, Ficlets, Glitter, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, Requests, Sickfic, Sleepy Sherlock, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:30:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doomsteady/pseuds/Doomsteady
Summary: Prompt fill collection. Have a request? Leave a comment!





	1. Sleepy Sick Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From anonymous:  
>  _Hey can you please write some sleepy, sick Sherlock for me???? Being lulled to sleep by his doctor john??????? Cuz he's cute????_

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock pouts, his vocal chords catching on the roughness in his sore throat. He feels a familiar twinge in his lungs, another coughing fit threatening to bubble up at any moment, and suppresses it with all his might.

“You really should, love,” John softly insists. “It’d pass a lot quicker if you would just give your body a bit of downtime to fight it off.”

“M’fine…” he murmurs, too stubborn to willingly admit that his transport could have this much control over him, to dictate that his mood should be so awful, his energy so drained. Sherlock very rarely gets sick, but when he does, it knocks him completely on his arse. He was right in the middle of a case, the most interesting one he’d had in weeks, and now he can’t even focus his mind on it for more than a few minutes.

He hates it. _God_ , how he hates being like this.

His diaphragm spasms, and unable to hold it back any longer, Sherlock doubles over in his seat, coughing heavily into the crook of his arm. His laptop slides to the floor with a clatter. His chest squeezes over and over, even as his throat resists, already dry and wrecked from two days of non-stop hacking.

It lasts several long, agonising minutes, and Sherlock hadn’t even noticed when John got up from the couch and hurried into the kitchen. Now a glass tumbler is being coaxed into his hands, filled with cool spring water from the fridge.

“Drink,” John urges, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s sweat-damp curls. When his aching lungs finally allow it, Sherlock takes an unsteady sip from the glass, gasping at the relief of the liquid parching his roughened throat.

Sitting back down beside him, John stretches his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, hugging him closer. And whether he goes willingly, or simply doesn’t have the energy to resist, Sherlock tilts into him with a soft sigh. He lays his head on John’s shoulder, whispering miserably.

“How do people do it, John— _be ill_? How do they stand it?”

“We generally don’t have a choice, sweetheart.”

Sherlock presses closer to him, one hand coming up to grip his jumper. He scrunches the material between long, pale fingers. “Make it go away,” he begs, his voice almost faltering. The pitiful sound of him makes John’s heart clench in sympathy. The ordeal finally seems to be breaking his resolve.

“Shh, you’re alright. I’m right here,” John coos, wrapping his arms protectively around him as another small shudder ripples through Sherlock’s battered chest. “It’s okay. Go to sleep. I’ll be right here, the whole time.”

“But the case…”

“It can wait, Sherlock. Trust me, the case isn’t going anywhere. And neither are you, so long as you keep pushing yourself like this.”

There’s a quiet sob, and for several long minutes, Sherlock seems unable to release the tension in his muscles. But John lightly strokes his fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm and presses small kisses atop the crown of his head, and slowly — ever so slowly — Sherlock begins to relax.

John hadn’t even realised they’d both eventually fallen asleep. He wakes when Sherlock stirs in his arms and stretches his long legs with an accompanying yawn, before curling back into himself like a cat. London’s sky is already dark outside their windows.

“Sherlock?” he whispers, loathe to disturb his rest, but thinking this probably won’t be the most comfortable way to spend the night for either of them. Sherlock hums in response. “We should get you to bed, hmm?”

Sherlock hums again, still drifting between sleep and awake. John tilts his head down to press another kiss to his temple, before easing them both upright on the couch. He picks up the glass of water on the coffee table and slowly guides Sherlock into the bedroom. John remains quiet and moves gently, mindful of Sherlock’s barely conscious state as he dresses Sherlock for bed and settles him under the covers, and can’t help an indulgent smile that tugs at the corners of his lips when Sherlock slips effortlessly back to sleep, having barely woken from the move at all.

John climbs into bed beside him, but he doesn’t go back to sleep. He’ll keep watch over Sherlock throughout the night, listening to the calm sounds of his breathing. And whenever he stirs, whenever the another bout of coughing wracks his trembling form, John’s arms will slide around him again and hold him steady, until sleep draws him under once again.


	2. Glitter and Stars (crafting a birthday card together)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "john and sherlock doing crafts together on the floor of 221b. quarreling over colors and glitter and themes and aesthetic and soft little exclamations of oh I quite like that" - I don't remember whose prompt this was, but if I find out, I'll edit it in!

It was a lazy Sunday morning like any other when John plodded down the stairs in his soft cotton trousers and thin vest. Still bleary-eyed from sleep, he headed straight into the kitchen for his morning cup of tea. But before he could do more than set out his mug and fill the kettle, his ears picked up a quiet susurrus coming from the living room.

Curious, he poked his head around the door. “Morning. What you up to, then?”

Sherlock glanced up from where he was sat cross-legged by the coffee table, wrapped in his navy blue dressing gown and surrounded by a scattering of junkmail booklets and magazines. A pair of scissors stilled in his hand, threaded halfway through a glossy page with a printed headline that read, if John squinted hard enough, ‘ _This Year’s Biggest Blockbusters_!’ in fat, red letters.

“It’s Mrs Hudson’s birthday tomorrow,” Sherlock mumbled, focus dropping back to his enigmatic task. He carefully adjusted his grip on the page and closed the scissor blades with a gentle, pleasing _snick_. As he rotated the paper, he seemed to be cutting a circle around one of the letters. After a full rotation, the cut piece fluttered to the carpet by his toes, and he set the ruined page down beside him.

John scratched a finger through his eyebrow. “Um… Okay. That didn’t really answer the question, though.” He plodded over to the coffee table for a better look at what his mad friend was up to.

Close-up, he could see that Sherlock had already cut several letters out of various magazines, and had arranged them in rows by his feet. There were a multitude of colours and typefaces; some bold, some elaborately curly, some with drop-shadows. It took John a moment to realise that he’d spelt out most of the phrase ‘Happy Birthday’ and had the beginnings of what would probably end up being ‘Mrs Hudson’.

It raised more questions than it answered. “What on earth are you doing?”

Sherlock let out a deep sigh. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m making a card.”

“A card?” John narrowed his eyes in puzzlement. “You’re actually… making a birthday card. From scratch.”

“Yes.”

“You do realise they sell those.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Right. Just… It would be a lot easier than”—his hand fluttered at the mess surrounding them—“all this.”

Sherlock stopped fiddling with the placement of his newest acquisition (the final ‘Y’ he needed to complete the word ‘Birthday’) and glared up at him. “John, I am not going to spend two or three quid on a mass-produced piece of cardboard printed with some obnoxiously fluffy sentiment and designed by a total stranger.”

His long finger jabbed accusingly over at the table by John’s chair, where his own card — a fairly standard Hallmark offering, with a teddybear or a kitten or something on the front (God, he couldn’t even remember) — was already sealed in its envelope and awaiting delivery. “How many cards do you buy a year, on average, and write the same banal message inside each one: ‘To blah, from John’? You don’t even get to write the ‘Happy Birthday’ bit yourself because it’s already written inside.”

“Well actually, I usually try to think of something more—”

“And once received, it is glanced at for approximately five seconds in total, before being forgotten on a mantlepiece for a day or two and then ending up in the rubbish bin.” He scowls, deepening the crinkle across the bridge of his nose. “Does that strike you as money well spent?”

“Well not when you put it like that,” John replied, “but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? People like getting cards.”

“Exactly! Which is why I’ve decided to make my own from now on. It has the dual benefit of being cheaper and more personal. I can guarantee you Mrs Hudson will appreciate it far more than whatever you plucked off a shelf in passing at Tescos.”

John sat himself on the sofa, faintly stunned. He couldn’t fault the logic. However, Sherlock’s technique left something to be desired. Perhaps it was a side-effect of a life spent investigating crimes, but the arrangement of mis-matched letters on the floor was looking more to him like a grisly ransom note than a cheery greeting.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to it. In fact, he seemed to be quite enjoying himself. “I may do one for Graham next.”

“Uh, before you get too carried away,” John hedged, “maybe you should try a different approach to this. Something that will end up looking a bit less like a threatening note from a kidnapper.”

Sherlock pinned him with a mildly pained look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this, the whole letters… thing.”

“It’s called a _collage_ , John.”

“It’s called, ‘ _Send something like this to Greg, and you’ll get yourself called in for questioning_.’ Not to mention probably giving Mrs H a heart attack. Look,” he lifted a finger before Sherlock could protest, “I’ll pop down the shops in a bit and pick up some supplies. Then we can both sit down and make a proper card, with— I don’t know, glitter or something. Alright?”

Sherlock studied him for a few seconds, his eyes flitting back and forth in indecision. Then, his shoulders relaxed on a defeated sigh. “Fine. If you think that would be better.”

* * *

That afternoon, they sat down together on the sofa, a variety of craft materials spread out across the coffee table. John felt like a schoolkid again, but his embarassment quickly melted underneath Sherlock’s genuine enthusiasm for the activity. Soon enough, they were both well into it.

“Pass me those sequins.”

“Where are you putting them?”

“I thought they could be like little stars or something.”

“Stars?” Sherlock scoffed, his breath accidentally blowing a scrap of coloured tissue paper off the table. “I thought this was a day scene. You can’t have a big yellow sun _and_ stars.”

“Says who?” John dabbed dots of glue in random spots across the top of the card. “It doesn’t have to make sense, as long as it looks pretty.”

“Careful. Don’t smudge—“

“I’m not going to bloody smudge it,” he mumbled. His tongue poked between his lips in concentration. After a few stars, he could feel Sherlock’s eyes burning at him. “What? I’m being careful.”

“Nothing.”

Before they knew it, they’d spent two whole hours bent over the coffee table, cutting shapes and gluing things and arguing lightheartedly over tiny details. By the end of it, their fingers were sticky and covered in sparkles. A silver foil star had somehow found its way onto Sherlock’s forehead, and John burst into giggles when he spotted it.

“God, we’ve made a mess,” he said, grinning as he stepped closer to pluck the star from Sherlock’s brow. It was the faintest of touches, but Sherlock’s breath hitched, a small noise that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. Their eyes locked for a moment, and it almost seemed as though they were both waiting for the other to make some move. To pull back, or perhaps lean in…

A passing car honked its horn in the street outside, startling them both. Blinking and clearing his throat, John stepped away. “We should, um. We’ll sign it once it’s dry.” He absently wiped the back of his hand across his nose and stared at their card, at the floor. Anything except those piercing silver eyes.

“ _John_.” Sherlock’s voice captured his attention like a magnet, impossible to resist. They gazed at each other, and as Sherlock stepped closer, invading his personal space, John felt his pulse kick up several notches in his throat.

“What?” he croaked. His mouth was watering more than usual. His fingers twitched at his sides, barely resisting a mad urge to reach out and curl around Sherlock’s broad shoulders. Sherlock leaned closer, and for one giddy moment, John thought he was about to kiss him.

Instead, Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. “You just smeared glitter all over your own face.”

* * *

The next day, their homemade card took pride of place on Mrs Hudson’s mantlepiece. She cooed over it for the better part of an hour, John and Sherlock keeping her company until it was time to see her off for a visit to her sister’s.

Afterwards, they were still finding sequins and stars in odd places around the flat for weeks. One night, John noticed Sherlock was staring at him unusually intently— even for him. John lowered his newspaper. “Something on my face?”

Sherlock rose slowly from his seat and approached him. Then, leaning down, he spoke in a tone several shades lower than John had ever heard. “Yes, actually.” John daren’t move an inch as Sherlock’s slender fingers came up and found his lip, pressing it gently.

Before he could prevent it, John’s tongue automatically darted out to wet his lips, and they both gasped as he ended up accidentally tasting the tip of Sherlock’s finger. There was a soft pinch, and Sherlock slowly withdrew his hand, presenting a tiny gold fleck.

John huffed a laugh, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Blimey. Your eyesight’s better than mine if you saw that all the way over there.”

“Actually, I lied.” Caging him in between his slender, powerful arms, Sherlock drew close enough that his breath ghosted across his mouth. Their noses touched, and John’s heart hammered in his chest. His eyes fluttered closed.

 _Glitter and stars_ , he thought giddily, before his mind went comfortably blank.


End file.
